


i will take your pain and put it on my heart

by haiplana



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/F, Fix-It, Fluff, Past Domestic Violence, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Trauma, Violence, bran stark who, forgot about him, in canon but I skipped and forgot half of what happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haiplana/pseuds/haiplana
Summary: “You failed.”Sansa heard a short sigh.“My lady, I did all that I could. I’m sorry—”“I asked you to implore my great-uncle to assist Jon Snow at the Battle of the Bastards. Did you or did you not do this?”“I did.”“I asked you to return to my side, alive and well. Did you or did you not do this?”“I did.”Sansa turned back to the great table and leaned against it, looking for a particular raven scroll. “Then you did your sworn duty.” She found the scrap of paper and presented it to Brienne. “If I ever receive a false message from you again, you will be released of your duties, Lady Brienne.”--Sansa tries to heal in the place where so much of her trauma happened. Brienne has sworn to protect her and take care of her health.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so this sometimes follows season 6/7 but not most of the time. also I forgot Bran sorry.

“The Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

Sansa Stark shuttered lightly as the large door to the main hall in Winterfell closed with a thud. Her back was to it — she was still sensitive to things she could not see. She heard the clink of armor, the gentle rattle of metal against metal, heavy boot against wood. Brienne took three steps towards Sansa.

“You failed.”

Sansa heard a short sigh.

“My lady, I did all that I could. I’m sorry—”

Sansa raised her hand. “I heard about the siege at Riverrun,” Sansa said. She stood from her chair and turned around to face the lady. Sansa gently sighed her delight at the sight of Brienne. “I know of the Lannister troops backing the Freys, I know of my uncle’s dishonor. And yet, just after the battle, I received a raven with a message from my protector telling me that she had failed. Can you explain this?”

“Lady Sansa, four years ago I swore an oath to your mother, the Lady Catelyn Stark, that I would return Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing and exchange him for her daughters, and I failed. Months ago, I swore an oath to you that I would be your protector and serve you. You charged me with retrieving the Blackfish and his army to come to your aid. I did not complete my mission.” Brienne lowered her head. “Once again, I have failed the Lady Stark.”

“Nonsense.” Sansa walked slowly to stand before Brienne. Despite her tall height, she still had to look up to her. The proximity dared to send Sansa’s head into a spin. The smell of Lady Brienne had returned to her senses with welcome.

“I do not understand, my lady,” Brienne said.

“I asked you to implore my great-uncle to assist Jon Snow at the Battle of the Bastards. Did you or did you not do this?”

“I did.”

“I asked you to return to my side, alive and well. Did you or did you not do this?”

“I did.”

Sansa turned back to the great table and leaned against it, looking for a particular raven scroll. “Then you did your sworn duty.” She found the scrap of paper and presented it to Brienne. “If I ever receive a false message from you again, you will be released of your duties, Lady Brienne.”

“Of course, my lady,” Brienne said. “Will that be all?”

“Yes.” Brienne bowed to Sansa and began to exit the great hall. Sansa opened her mouth to speak, ready to call Brienne back and ask her to sit, but decided to stay silent.

She returned to her work, reading grain counts and reports from banner armies, and writing letters to potential allies in the war to come. Jon charged her with making sure Winterfell could withstand a long winter as well as a battle. She worked tirelessly to ensure that the keep was well armed and well stocked, and that the standing armies already there would make it through the winter. Her many strolls through the courtyard, occasionally accompanied by the ever-lurking Lord Petyr Baelish, saw Sansa often instructing the men on what needed to be done. Most were rather incompetent.

It irked Sansa that all these men should be in charge of the most basic and necessary of castle functions, and yet things were still not as they should be. Granted, they had just retaken Winterfell from the Boltons, who had stolen it from the Greyjoys, but Theon knew how the estate was run, and Roose Bolton, cruel as he was, was not stupid. Maester Luwin’s records were well in tact. Sansa had to direct each aspect of life at Winterfell, and yet the large decisions were still made by Jon without a thought to her own ideas.

The world was never kind to women.

Sansa shuddered as she read a casualty report from the Battle of the Bastards. The top name inscribed was that of her late husband, Ramsay Bolton. Each time she had faced Ramsay since escaping his clutches, she swallowed the fear and pain that he had instilled in her, instead letting anger bubble hotly between her ribs. She couldn’t let on that the sight of Ramsay made her hands shake. The only joy she found in the sight of him was when he was bloodied and the hounds were ripping him to shreds.

Sansa stood, deciding she’d had enough work for the day. The great hall had grown stuffy with dry heat from the fire trapped within the stone walls. She stood, stretched and put on her heavy cloak. She left through the doors that Brienne had gone through some time ago.

Winterfell was loud and bustling, as it always used to be. Smiths were hammering blades and nailing leather onto metal plates in preparation for winter; stable boys were fitting shoes and tending to the horses; women were checking food and bringing supplies to the kitchen. Livestock milled about alongside the people.

Sansa walked a familiar path throughout the keep, starting with the courtyard, then climbing the stairs to the walls and ramparts. She ran her gloved fingers through the snow on the edge of the wall. Sansa had so much love for this place — the stone walls, the cracks and crevices, the landings that her father used to stand on, lording over his keep. No matter how many people tried to take it from her, Winterfell would always be her home.

In the distance, swords clinked against armor, crashed against each other. Sansa walked the easy path along the ramparts to the sparring pits. She looked over the edge of one, just as her father had done while Robb and Jon and Theon were learning to swing swords. The boys weren’t in the pit on this day; rather it was Brienne in her shining blue armor, now padded with leather, heaving a sword about her. It was a practice sword, silver and leather rather than the sharp golden sword she usually carried. Sansa studied her swift movements, and she had to put a hand on the wooden balcony to steady herself. She barely even noticed who Brienne was sparring with.

Lyanna Mormont let out a fierce cry as she swung her sword over her head and at Brienne. Brienne easily blocked the attack and twirled out of the way, swinging her sword at Lyanna with most of her might. Lyanna was ready; she blocked Brienne’s advance with another slash.

“Good, Lady Lyanna. Never forfeit speed for strength, for you are sure to be weaker than your opponent. You must be more fluid and fast. Anticipate his next move, and you might win.” Brienne moved back and let Lyanna reset.

They continued on their fighting until they were both breathless, something that Sansa believed Brienne incapable of. The woman’s strength and endurance far outpaced most men. It was a shock, then, that little Lyanna Mormont was keeping up. Sansa continued to gaze upon them, even when Brienne stepped back and let Podrick Payne battle Lyanna. The two were better matched, obviously, but Lyanna was still one step ahead of Pod. Brienne looked at both of them with pride.

Sansa stepped away before she was noticed and continued on with her stroll.

 

 

Each day, Sansa took a turn about Winterfell at the same time, sometimes accompanied by Lord Baelish or Lord Royce, the new maester or man-at-arms. Jon would find her walking, too, and would tag along, but he paid little attention to his surroundings while Sansa took notice of everything. While Jon talked of the Dragon Queen and the Night King, Sansa noted that the southmost gate was in disrepair, the guards on the western wall were slacking off, and the horses were becoming sickly. She counted the bags of grain they had in the stores and caught soldiers stealing some in the busiest part of the day. Jon was already off to war in his mind; Sansa was still at home, trying to keep her people fed.

In her youth, Sansa was good at neither counting nor observing. But, her years traveling between the great estates of King’s Landing, the Eyrie, and Winterfell with the former Master of Coin and rival to the Master of Whisperers taught her that one could not be of any use without either skill. She had honed her talents and suddenly found herself the smartest person in Winterfell, it seemed. So, she walked around her domain and paid more attention than anyone else there.

Sansa always made a point to devote a portion of her walk to stopping at the sparring pits. She could pass it off as curiosity about the state of her troops, but she always seemed to focus on one troop in particular. Brienne trained on a rigid schedule — at the first light of dawn with Pod; around midday with Pod and Lyanna; and before she went to bed, sometimes with Pod and sometimes on her own. Sansa wasn’t sure when she had internalized this schedule, but she seemed to know it by heart. At night, as she read a book or did work by the fire, Sansa’s mind would wander and realize that Brienne must be training. She would imagine her darting around in her armor, swinging her sword, the tendons in her exposed neck tightening in the glinting moonlight.

After little more than a week of observing Brienne — and hiding from her sights high above the fighting pit — Sansa finally grew careless, and she stayed long enough for Brienne to notice her leaning against the wooden railing. She bowed her head towards Sansa, and Pod and Lyanna stopped fighting to see what Brienne was looking at.

“My lady,” Brienne said, “is there something that you need?”

Sansa stared at the trio, unsure what sort of excuse she could have for lurking above them. “Lady Brienne, I wish to personally invite you and Podrick to the feast this evening.” It was weak, Sansa knew; of course Brienne and Pod would be in attendance. Pod gave Brienne a strange look, but his mentor did not make Sansa seem anything but gracious.

“Thank you, my lady. We will be sure to attend.”

 

 

They hosted dinner in the great hall, a wondrous feast to celebrate the return of the Starks to Winterfell. For the first time, Jon Snow sat beside his sister at the great table and looked upon his bannermen beside Sansa. All the lords of the northern houses were in attendance — even Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island with her army’s lord commander. Sansa watched with delight as Lyanna drank her ale with the rest of them and regaled the burly men with tales of her mother’s bravery.

Sansa thought of her mother and of how proud she would be in this moment. She would be sad, and maybe a bit angry, but she would be proud — proud of how they retook Winterfell, maybe even proud of Jon despite her hatred for him, and proud of Sansa’s resilience. But then she’d be angry over the circumstances under which Sansa’s resilience grew.

Across the room, Sansa spotted Brienne, eating silently and occasionally whispering with Podrick Payne. She could see Brienne mouthing the names of the men and the houses to which they belonged. Sansa liked Pod; he was meek yet loyal and noble in his own way. She laughed a little now as he followed along, hanging on Brienne’s words like an eager puppy.

Suddenly, Jon stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “My lords,” he began, “I have asked many favors of you. I have asked you to fight for Winterfell against Lord Bolton, I have asked you to put your trust in me. Now, I must ask you once again to have faith in the North and in the Stark name.”

“Winter has come,” Jon continued. “I served faithfully at the wall, and I know what the winter brings. It brings darkness and death, and blades of ice. What we face is a greater danger than any man could know. Now, I am not my father. I could only wish to be half as noble as he. I swear to you, my lords, that I will try every day to serve you in the way that my father would have.”

A great whoop rang throughout the hall, mixed with scattered shouts of “The King in the North!” Sansa looked out at her people — those who loved her brother and the Stark name, but still thought of her as a weak young girl — and found the one pair of eyes not staring at Jon. Brienne was gazing at her, mouth set in a hard line. She locked eyes with Sansa for a moment, and Sansa’s heart fluttered in the strange way that it had since she had sent Brienne to Riverrun.

“Let’s hope the bastard didn’t put a baby in her, or we’ll be kneeling to another Bolton soon enough.” A man to Sansa’s right muttered just as the cheering and chanting died down. Sansa turned her head ever so slightly, not daring to look the man in the eye but focusing her hearing on him.

His companion grumbled. “I’d kill them both, mother and child, if it came to it. Can’t have the son of a traitor running around Winterfell, being chased by his sullied mother.”

Sansa’s stomach turned, and she felt bile in her throat. Her back began to tingle and itch, the freshly healed scars scattering her body festering. The hall was too hot, the voices too loud. The screech of her chair grated in her ears before she fled the great hall. Her vision turned to darkness at the edges. Sansa stumbled through the halls of Winterfell, her feet carrying her without her mind’s permission. Her hands hit a heavy wooden door. She stopped before she could open it and cried out, falling to the ground and scurrying to the wall opposite. She pressed her back against the stones and could feel the sharp edges even through her fur cloak. It grounded her. Sansa began to breathe again.

“Lady Sansa?”

Sansa jumped, her heart pounding again after only a breath’s rest, but she knew the smooth voice rounding the corner. Brienne appeared, a torch in her hand. Her hair glistened in the fire’s light. Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but once again was speechless in the presence of her protector.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Brienne asked, lowering herself to examine Sansa in the light.

Sansa swallowed. “Yes, fine, merely tired of the feast. It feels I’ve already had enough excitement for three lifetimes over.”

“Yes,” Brienne said with a laugh, “you have had quite the journey in your young life.” She took Sansa’s hand and guided her to her feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No!” Sansa yelled as Brienne took a step towards the door in front of them. Her shout rang through the stone halls. Sansa dropped her eyes in embarrassment.

“Is this not your room?”

Sansa nodded. “It is. It was, when I was a girl and when I was with…”

“Ah.” Brienne took a slow step closer to Sansa.

“Jon’s having the lord’s chambers made up for me, but there was more work to do than expected.”

Brienne looked at Sansa with sad blue eyes. “Lady Sansa, have you slept in the last five days?”

“Not at all,” Sansa whispered. She stared at Brienne and noticed the muscle above her jaw twitch. Even the tiniest of tendons within Lady Brienne seemed stronger than any part of Sansa’s body. Sansa wanted to know what that twitch felt like beneath her palm.

“Come. I’ll take you to my chambers and you can sleep there.”

“I couldn’t impose, Lady Brienne, I really—” Exhaustion and Brienne’s sharp eyes took the fight out of Sansa.

“I swore to protect you, my lady,” Brienne said. She bent down and hooked one arm behind Sansa’s knees, the other catching Sansa’s weight around her shoulders. “Protecting you means ensuring you have proper rest. I can’t have the Queen in the North wasting away because no one has found her a proper bed yet.”

Sansa tucked her head against Brienne’s collarbone and laughed. “I’m not… Jon is the King.”

Brienne set Sansa down before another door — this room was Bran’s — and shoved the wood out of the way. She took Sansa’s hand again and brought her inside. Sansa heard the click of the bolt on the door and shuddered, having heard that same click dozens of times before, having known the horrors yet to come.

But no horrors followed. Just Brienne stepping around Sansa to take a poker from beside the hearth and stir the fire.

“I’m no northerner, Lady Sansa, but I know who the true Warden of the North is. In my heart, you will always lead.” Brienne put the poker down and attended to papers on the table, quickly flipping through them. “Podrick should be here in a few minutes. I’ll send him to fetch your sleep clothes.” She looked up at Sansa, who was still standing in the center of the room, eyes like a child seeing a crypt for the first time. Her brow furrowed. “Is everything all right?”

“I know I killed him,” Sansa whispered. She stared at a burn on the floor beside the fire. “I know he’s dead, and I’ll never feel his terrible fingers or taste his mouth, but I can’t get him out of my head. He’s etched himself into me; his name is written on my flesh. I—”

When Sansa looked up, her eyes met Brienne’s right in front of her. She could see the rivets of light blue mixed in with a darker shade, something sapphire, like the sea surrounding Tarth. She counted each of Brienne’s blonde eyelashes, trailed her gaze over the soft lines beneath Brienne’s eyes. She couldn’t feel phantom fingers on her waist anymore.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking of such things.”

“Lady Sansa, you have endured unspeakable evils, and you have come out alive and stronger for it. I’ve seen men go to battle and return rattled far beyond repair. You have seen the worst of the world and you push on,” Brienne said. She placed a hand on Sansa’s cheek. “We have been mistreated by men, tossed around like playthings. But we are driven by our duty and our unwavering self-worth.”

Sansa let out a breath. “You too?”

“Yes, some time ago. I dealt with my demons. You need not worry about me.”

The warmth of Brienne’s hand spread through Sansa’s face and to the wells behind her eyes, but she did not cry, for she was in the presence of Brienne and Brienne would keep her demons at bay while she could not fend on her own. Sansa hooked her hands behind Brienne’s neck and brought their foreheads together gently. She could feel Brienne’s breath on her lips. She didn’t know what she was doing; neither did Brienne. Sansa’s brow wrinkled with Brienne’s, confusion passing between them. Sansa lifted her lips towards Brienne’s.

“Lady Sansa?”

Before more words could be said or more moves made, a knock came at the door, and Sansa sprang back. She rushed around Brienne and stumbled towards the bed. Pod took a step inside the room, and Sansa hid her burning cheeks in her fur collar.

“My lady.” He looked beyond Brienne and spotted Sansa. “My lady.” It was more of a question. Sansa wanted to laugh.

“The Lady Sansa’s accommodations were unfit for her. Please find and retrieve her sleep clothes as quickly as possible,” Brienne said. Pod nodded and ran off.

Sansa looked back towards the door that Brienne was shutting and bolting again. She gazed at the woman from beneath drooping eyelids. Brienne walked back to the table and sat down and began to read one of her papers more thoroughly. It was silent for a long while.

“Lady Brienne, I’m—”

“Pardon me, my lady,” Brienne said, “but neither one of us owes anyone an apology, least of all you.”

The room was silent until Pod knocked on the door once again, and Brienne stood to retrieve the clothes from him. She thanked him and sent him away. Brienne carried the clothes to the bed and placed them gently beside Sansa, then took a few steps back.

Sansa ran her finger over the fabric. “These are my favorite. So soft.” She stood and removed her cloak, setting it on the bed, and then her boots, then began untying her heavy gown. It fell easily from her weary shoulders. Sansa heard something near to a gasp behind her, and she knew — Brienne had seen what Sansa was too afraid to look at.

The gash just below her shoulder blade was from a whip; the burns down her spine from a poker used to stoke the fire; she had three cuts on each side of her ass, as well as teeth marks and scratch lines. The backs of her legs bore the marks of his whip as well, and faded rope burns surrounded her wrists and ankles. All that had been revealed once the bruises faded.

“So, you’ve seen me.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I forgot to turn around and offer you privacy.”

Sansa turned around, forgetting her sleep clothes. Brienne’s back was to her. “I’m too afraid to look. I only know what the maester told me. Is it so bad?” Brienne shook her head. “Will you look at me now?”

Brienne looked first with her head, then followed with her body slowly. She kept her eyes on Sansa’s, not even wavering lower. Sansa’s fingers pressed into her thighs — she was afraid of Brienne’s reaction. Would she be disgusted by Sansa’s scars or her womanhood?

But Brienne did not waver. She did not open her mouth to speak the horrors of Sansa’s scars or decry her perversion. She simply waited on bated breath for Sansa’s next move, leaving all control to Sansa. For the first time, Sansa was seen, and Sansa held the reigns.

“I have bite marks on my chest that have yet to fade.” Sansa trailed her fingers over the divots just above each of her breasts, her hands knowing the location without need for her eyes. “On our wedding night, he ripped the back of my dress and bent me over, and his rings sliced down my sides. When I sent Theon to put a candle in the tower, he tied me to the bed and threatened to cut my breast off. His blade pierced the skin, and he licked the blood from my ribs.” Each story was punctuated by Sansa tracing the lines. Brienne’s eyes followed. “His stepmother became pregnant, so he ran his knife from my navel to my cunt. He said he was going to put a son in me one way or another.”

“Lady Sansa, please.”

“Will you touch me, Brienne?”

“I don’t understand, my lady,” Brienne said, her gaze returning to Sansa’s. Sansa crossed the great divide between herself and Brienne. “I cannot take what has been taken from you.”

“It hasn’t all been taken. What I have left to give I wish to offer freely to you, as you offered your sword to me,” Sansa whispered.

“Are you sure?”

“Touch me.” Sansa took one of Brienne’s hands — warm, calloused, steady — and placed it on her naked hip. “Touch me where he did, but be gentle, Lady Brienne, for I may break.”

Brienne put her other hand on Sansa’s hip, then slid it higher, tracing the ring scars over the swell of her breast and to her face. She leaned down and placed her face just before Sansa’s, and Sansa realized she would not kiss her unless Sansa showed that she was ready. So Sansa pressed up and into Brienne, catching Brienne’s bottom lip between hers. Brienne’s hands trailed the marks that Sansa had not dared touch, far gentler than the hands that had made them. She started high, then moved lower. She met plump and soft skin and lifted until Sansa’s legs were wrapped around her waist.

Sansa cried out. “Your sword.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Brienne said. She cleared the bed quickly and placed Sansa on it, then knelt before her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sansa said, breathless. “Just take it off. And your clothes, please.”

Brienne did as her lady bid her, fumbling with the knot of her sword belt before letting it clatter to the ground. Her padded tunic was next, then her shirt. She stood to take off her boots and pants. Sansa watched with eager eyes, then laid herself down almost dutifully. Brienne placed a knee on the bed, one hand supporting her while the other spread Sansa’s legs. She settled between them.

“Is this all right?” Brienne asked. Sansa nodded.

She began slowly. She kissed the line where shining red hair met pale skin. She stopped to feel Sansa against her lips again, overwhelmingly eager. Then, she kissed each collarbone, ran her fingers over one breast while taking the other in her mouth, and teased until the stoic Sansa squirmed and then continued along the lines of her body. Her tongue traced the raised scar from her navel to her center, her lips found scratch marks and toothy divots inside Sansa’s thighs. Sansa breathed heavily above her.

“That’s—” Sansa reached for Brienne’s head and tugged her up. “Not right now. That’s too much.”

Brienne nodded and kissed Sansa gently. “Okay, my lady. I can stop if you would like.”

“I would like you inside of me.”

Sansa’s breath was taken away by the dark look in Brienne’s eyes.

Permission given, Brienne wasted no time. She cupped Sansa’s center, ran her fingers through it as she pressed against her clit with the heel of her hand. She smoothed over her clit and rubbed it slowly. Sansa sucked in a breath. She spread her legs wider and pushed her hips up in an attempt to increase the pleasure, but there was no need. Brienne was already moving her fingers down again and slipping one in her folds, then another. Sansa gasped and tightened a hand around Brienne’s neck, pulling her closer. Brienne began her thrusts easily and steadily. She kissed along Sansa’s neck and breathed in her ear.

Sansa’s muscles tightened with each thrust of Brienne’s fingers, and she found it hard to keep herself under control. Control — that was something she had gained a strong appreciation for, if not a constant need for, over the last six years of her life. Since her time as a Lannister hostage in King’s Landing, she had found that revealing any emotion or thought could be a death sentence. She learned from her latest marriage that control was the key to not being controlled by others.

But in this moment, as she tightened her fingers in the longer blonde hairs at the base of Brienne’s scalp, she was discovering the glory in letting go. Brienne’s fingers were filling her but not stretching her; the pain that fucking had always brought her was nowhere near. She felt safe, shielded not only from the outer world but from the demons and scars that plagued her body. She reveled in the way Brienne’s nakedness was covering her completely. For the first time in forever she actually felt small, but not in a way that was unwelcome. Rather she was entrusting Brienne with the task of caring for her, allowing Brienne to carry the burden of knowing Sansa as Sansa knew herself — her body and her pleasure and her past.

Sansa could feel the pit in her stomach growing, the flares of heat rising into her cheeks, and the ripples of pleasure filling her. Her gasps and soft moans came from low in her chest. She pushed her hips up into Brienne’s hand and the pressure on her clit, combined with the fingers still moving inside her, caused the pit to break and the pressure to release until she felt nothing but bliss in her core. Sansa pulled Brienne’s head closer to kiss her.

“Good,” she whispered, and Brienne understood and stilled her hand, letting Sansa relax before withdrawing. Sansa tilted her head back and waited for her breaths to slow. “I never thought that… that could feel so wonderful. With Ramsay, I’d— but I hated it, and it hurt more than it felt good.”

Brienne kissed the sweat from Sansa’s forehead. “Don’t speak his name.”

Sansa nodded. She let her eyes slip closed for a moment and focused on the sound of her heart beating in her ears and the fire crackling. Within moments, it felt like she was miles away from the sounds of Winterfell and instead in the stars. She jolted herself awake, her heart pounding to catch up. She told herself to move, to kiss Brienne and straddle her, but her limbs were swimming through syrup and all she could manage was to turn on her side and throw an arm over Brienne’s naked waist.

“I’ll take care of you, I just need a moment’s rest.”

“Shh, my lady, there’s no need,” Brienne said. She shifted closer to Sansa and pulled her head to her breast. “You must sleep.”

Sansa yawned, but she still fought sleep. “I want you to feel as you have made me feel. You deserve—”

“I deserve nothing.”

“But how could I not when you are so beautiful?”

Brienne laughed. “Another night. I promise that once you are rested, you will have all that you wish for.”

The bed was warm with their bodies pressed together, and the fire burning and the furs laying on top of them. Sansa could smell herself on Brienne and on the sheets, and it was a beautiful thing, to be surrounded by lust and to be held by this strong, passionate woman.

“When I was a child,” Sansa said, her words slurring with satiety and exhaustion, “I wished for many things. I was very impatient.”

She fell asleep to the comfort of Brienne’s deep laugh in her ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa knew that it was late in the day when she awoke — she knew this because the fire in Brienne’s room was low and Brienne was nowhere to be found. A great spread of bread, cheese, bacon, and fish was on the table, mostly untouched. Sansa surmised that Brienne had left it all for her. The furs were pulled up around her naked flesh to ensure her warmth.

Her muscles were tight, and she stretched them, feeling an ache in her thighs that she didn’t hate. She pulled herself out of bed, the chilly air hitting her heated skin, and she ran a hand through her long red hair. Just as she reached down for her dress, the door to the room opened.

Brienne looked at Sansa as if she were seeing the sun. “My lady, you’re awake.”

“Finally,” Sansa said. “You’ve been busy. How much of the day have I missed?”

“Plenty.” Brienne was in her light armor, obviously having come from the sparring pits. Sansa walked over to her and untied the heavy cloak from her shoulders. She kept her eyes on Brienne’s as it fell to the floor in a heap. Brienne was transfixed — she watched, mouth slightly agape, as Sansa worked on the ties of her light armor. “How do you feel, my lady?”

Sansa laughed lightly in Brienne’s ear. “I think we ought to drop the formalities, Brienne. And I feel fantastic, though I missed you when I awoke.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

“There were things to attend to. I understand better than anyone,” Sansa said. She gently bit the lobe of Brienne’s ear. “But now that you’re back…”

Brienne sighed. “It would give me the greatest pleasure, but there is urgent business that you must tend to.”

“And Jon cannot do it? I have been tending to this keep while Jon has been mostly absent, and you said yourself that I am exhausted.”

“Your brother is not here.”

Sansa’s heart stopped. “Where is he?”

“He is sailing for Dragonstone to answer the summons of the Dragon Queen.” Brienne seemed to sense that Sansa needed space, so she stepped back just as the words sunk in.

Sansa turned away and gathered her dress from the floor, silent. She stepped into it and pulled it up over her shoulders, then slid on her stockings and boots. The ties on her dress were not always easy for her to do on her own, but she was often able to fasten them herself; however, in her state of anger she found it incredibly difficult.

“I told him not to go. I told him to send someone in his stead. And now he’s left me with Winterfell, no warning or a care sent my way.” Sansa usually kept her emotions in check as of late, especially around other people, but this was Brienne — she trusted her with her life and, recently, her pleasure — and she was too frustrated to mask herself. The ties of her dress refused to cooperate. She turned to Brienne. “Would you mind?”

Brienne stepped closer to Sansa and pushed her shoulder so that Sansa’s back was to her. “Your brother is a smart man, and we know he is a hard man to kill, but he is rather impulsive.”

“An understatement.” Sansa snorted with rueful laughter. Unfortunately, it was just when Brienne was tightening her bodice, and she struggled to breathe in.

“You are a capable woman, more capable than all the men of Winterfell. I have no doubt that Jon’s absence will not bear a heavy mark on the operations within the keep. But,” Brienne continued, having finished the lacings and turned Sansa to face her, “rest is important if you are to be running Winterfell fully on your own. Leave your health to me.”

“I can’t have you acting as my nurse.”

“Not your nurse, Sansa, but as your sworn protector, and as your—”

Sansa’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. Brienne dropped her hands from Sansa’s shoulders, turned away and bent to pick up her cloak. She put it on her broad shoulders and tied it in the front once again. Sansa watched this, all the while realizing that she couldn’t stop staring at the dexterous movements of Brienne’s fingers, the line of her mouth and her beautiful lips, the nervousness in her sparkling eyes.

Sansa had always thought Brienne beautiful — enchanting, really, a rare gem one was lucky to come across. Her short hair was lighter than any golden locks that Sansa had ever seen, and it waved so nicely over her brow. The night before, when Brienne had looked down upon her with a glint in her eye, a strand had fallen onto her forehead endearingly. Sansa remembered that now, and was suddenly filled with the need to see such a thing again and the urge to once again feel Brienne’s silky hair.

“My lady.”

Brienne paused her nervous ministrations. Her eyes lifted to Sansa’s. “Pardon me?”

“What men call their lovers and their betrothed. You are my lady,” Sansa said. Her stomach roiled with nerves, and the strange look on Brienne’s face did not help much. “I do not wish to presume, only—”

Brienne silenced her with a kiss, one so passionate that it sent Sansa stumbling back and Brienne scrambling to balance her. Sansa broke away to laugh, and it brought the greatest smile to Brienne’s lips.

A knock came at the door, interrupting them once again. “Lady Brienne,” Podrick called, “the guards that require Lady Sansa’s attention are growing impatient.”

Brienne sighed. “Tell them that the Lady of Winterfell is coming presently, and remind them of the hazards of rushing a lady.” Sansa rose up and pressed another kiss to Brienne’s lips.

“Will you escort me to the great hall, Brienne?”

“It would give me the greatest pleasure,” Brienne said.

Sansa’s mask returned to her face as they made their way through the keep and to the great hall. It was where her father had taken audience, and now where she took audience. It was austere during the day, when there were no feasts to be had and no wine or ale to be drank. It was dark, the only light entering through the high windows. She took her seat in the center of the great table, and Brienne posted behind her. The two guards asking for her audience were brought in.

“What is it?” Sansa asked, her voice deep with authority.

“Sorry to disturb you, m’lady.” One of the guards, round and old, was wringing his hands. “It’s a small matter.”

Sansa raised her eyebrow to bid them to continue.

“A girl came to the gate demanding to get in, speaking nonsense. We told her to wait. We were standing right next to her, and…” The younger and skinnier one stepped forward.

The first was quick to speak. “And when we’d turned around she’d gone, m’lady. She was nothing, some Wintertown girl.”

“She comes in asking for, uh, Ser Rodrick and Maester Luwin.”

“Don’t trouble yourself over it, m’lady, we’ll find her.”

Sansa stood abruptly. She felt lightheaded with expectancy and excitement and anxiety. A smile came to her lips. “You don’t have to. I know where she is.”

She stormed out of the great hall and through the dark halls. She heard Brienne on her heels, and just as she was going to descend the outer stairs to the courtyard, she stopped.

“Where are you going, my lady?” Brienne asked.

“Stay here, Brienne. There is no danger.”

Sansa was off again, descending the stairs in the frigid air. She marched through the frozen mud, past the horses and the Knights of the Vale, into the archway guarded by four men. She barely acknowledged them as she went through the entry to the crypt.

The crypt was dark and wet, and only the sound of torches burning floated through the darkness. Sansa descended the stairs, the chain of her necklace rattling and disturbing the silence of the crypt. She looked down the rows and saw just what she had expected.

“Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?” Her sister asked.

“Yes.” Sansa smiled, and she rushed toward Arya, enveloping her small sister in a hug. “You should’t have run from the guards.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “I didn’t run. You need better guards.”

Sansa laughed and nodded. There was a stoicism to Arya’s face, one that had never been there before. It seemed to fit Sansa more than her once-spirited sister. Arya was hardened, too, with muscle hidden beneath her cloak. Her eyes were as dark as her father’s and her brother’s.

“It suits you,” Arya said. “Jon left you in charge?”

“He did. I hope he comes back soon. I remember how happy he was to see me. When he sees you, his heart will probably stop.”

Arya’s face lit up, and she laughed. Then, they both looked to their father’s statue. “It doesn’t look like him. It should have been carved by someone who knew his face.”

“Everyone who knew his face is dead.”

“We’re not.”

They spoke for a time, there in the crypt, Arya telling Sansa about her list of people she planned to kill. Sansa scoffed when she heard of it, wondering how her little sister could even joke about such a thing. But when Sansa had laughed, Arya’s face only hardened, and it became harder to imagine her sister’s declaration as a joke. Arya laughed along with her after a moment, so Sansa dropped it.

After they caught up, they left the crypt together, the hardened Stark girls finally reunited. They crossed the courtyard towards the high walls of the keep. As they walked, Sansa saw Brienne and Podrick watching from the corner of the courtyard. They went up the stairs and into the keep, and Sansa led her sister to the great hall. She sat in her seat, papers shifting as her cloak brushed against the table, and she began writing notes — another room to be set, another mouth to feed.

“Where did Jon go?” Arya asked. Sansa heard her walking slowly around the room.

She rolled her eyes as she continued with notes. “He’s sailed to Dragonstone to entreat the Dragon Queen to aid us in the coming war. The army of the dead is fast upon us and we don’t have a large enough force to even have a fighting chance.”

“Not large enough, even with all the banners?”

“The War of the Five Kings depleted the North of men. The Karstarks and the Umbers were disloyal and dishonorable, and their forces are small and their leaders young,” Sansa explained. “And with the Bolton army gone—”

Arya stopped walking. “What happened to the Boltons?”

“Roose Bolton betrayed our brother and assisted the Freys in murdering our family.” She tightened the grip on her quill to keep her hand from shaking. “They took Winterfell and held it hostage. They were an enemy to our house, so we destroyed them.”

“Good.”

“I’ll have another room prepared for you,” Sansa said, pausing her notes to look at Arya standing below the table.

“My old room?” Arya asked.

“Jon’s taken yours, and Lady Brienne is in Bran’s…” Sansa sighed and felt her jaw tighten. “I suppose you’ll have to take mine.”

Arya’s brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you staying there?”

“I can’t.” It was short and quick, and meant to be final. Arya didn’t get the message, or she didn’t care.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t, Arya. Don’t ask me again.”

The sisters stared at each other, steely gazes that didn’t dare show emotion. Arya was the first to break, turning her head away and scanning the rafters of the great hall.

“Maybe one day you’ll tell me what happened to you,” Arya said quietly. She looked back to Sansa.

“It would make you sick to know. Jon barely knows any of it and it revolts him.” Sansa’s jaw relaxed as she saw her sister’s eyes soften. “Sparing you details would be a mercy no one awarded me.”

“I’m your sister.”

Sansa smiled softly. “You are, and that is why you need not be burdened with it.” She looked down at the papers before her — they were only half of what needed to be done, the other half strewn about the desk in her old room; she hadn’t touched those papers. She would send Brienne for them before the servants cleared the room for Arya. “My room will suit your needs. I’ll have the mattress burned and replaced, the whole room scrubbed. There will be no trace of what was once there. You’ll find most things in Winterfell are as they were; you might want to visit the Godswood. I’d take you, but I have slept most of the day and now have work to catch up on.”

“Of course.” Arya nodded and took a few steps towards the door.

“Arya,” Sansa called before her sister could leave. Arya stopped and turned her head. “Welcome home.”

 

 

Brienne pulled Sansa tightly to her, her chest still heaving, breaths puffing onto Sansa’s cheek. Sansa smiled and nibbled at the soft skin of Brienne’s neck. She loved the tendons there — the way they tightened when she stroked Brienne, when she sucked on her and made love to her.

“Where did you learn that?” Brienne asked, astonished at the pleasure Sansa had just drawn from her.

“Margaery Tyrell.” Sansa laughed when she saw the look on Brienne’s face. “She didn’t _teach_ me, merely suggested what a woman who fancied women might do. Apparently her maid had grown up in a pleasure house and had learned to pleasure women, and she told Margaery, and Margaery told me.”

“Thank the gods for Margaery Tyrell and her maid,” Brienne said, “and thank the gods for you.”

Sansa pressed closer to her and kissed her. “They’ve finished the lord’s chambers.”

“Oh.”

“Will you…” Sansa worried her bottom lip. “Will you come with me? To stay?”

“Sansa Stark, I will follow you anywhere as long as you’ll have me,” Brienne said. She took Sansa tighter in her arms and gently moved her so she was on her back on the mattress. With one hand, she stroked her palm down Sansa’s chest, gently massaged the muscles of her stomach, then ran her hand between Sansa’s legs and to her wetness. “I will worship you more than I worship the gods. I will ease you to sleep each night, and wake you with a gentle kiss each morning.” She slipped her fingers inside Sansa easily, and Sansa immediately opened up for Brienne. “I will do all that you ask, because I am yours, and nothing in the world has brought me greater happiness.”

Brienne wound Sansa up, brought the lightness to her limbs and the sparks to her core. Sansa breathed in Brienne, consumed all that Brienne was giving to her and gave to Brienne what she had in return. Just as she was reaching the height of it, she opened her eyes and studied the twitching of Brienne’s bicep as she thrust, the heaving of her breaths as she worked to pleasure Sansa, and the sparkling of her eyes as she watched Sansa writhe.

“I love you.” Sansa gasped the words out, and then she was over the edge and she grabbed Brienne’s bicep to steady herself. “I love you. Please, stay with me. I love you.”

 

 

“I heard she beat the Hound in single combat,” Lord Baelish said, walking up the stairs to the landing. He watched intently as Brienne easily shoved Pod into a pile of snow. Arya and Lyanna — onlookers for this round — giggled from the side. “She’s a very impressive woman.”

“What do you want, Lord Baelish?”

Littlefinger leaned against the railing beside Sansa, his back to the sparring pit. “I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and tried not to cringe. “I am safe,” Sansa said. “I’m at home, surrounded by friends. I have Brienne to protect me from anyone who would harm me.”

“What about happy? There are matters to discuss, Lady Sansa. Things that cannot be said in the presence of your bannermen. Things that might make you happy, but will make others unhappy.” He scanned Sansa up and down — this she saw out of the corner of her eye, watching Littlefinger while keeping her attention on Brienne. “I have no doubt that your marriage was consummated before your late husband’s death.” Sansa tightened her jaw. “As Lord Bolton’s widow, you are entitled to certain benefits. Among those is the right to his estate, his wealth — the Dreadfort.”

“I want nothing to do with that place or his name.”

Sansa fought the urge to shift uncomfortably. The itch grew again in her back, the one that reminded her of Ramsay’s hands, his roughness. Below her, she watched Brienne set up a battle between Arya and Pod, then look up to the landing where she now knew Sansa to watch from.

“You are the Lady of Winterfell, and this gives you great power, but what happens when your brother returns? He will be King in the North, the true lord of this keep. What place will there be for you? The Dreadfort, Sansa, that could be your place. Assuming you bore Ramsay Bolton’s heir, that is.”

Brienne walked around the sparring pit and to the stairs, worried eyes never leaving Sansa.

“Think. Why aren’t you happy? What do you want that you do not have?” Littlefinger asked.

Sansa swallowed the fear that the thought of Ramsay and his seed brought, bit back the anxiety that threatened to knock her off her feet. She continued to stare at the pit. “At the moment, peace and quiet.”

Littlefinger stared at her, but Brienne was treading heavily up the stairs, a reprieve for Sansa. Brienne looked ready to cut him down. Littlefinger opened his mouth to speak.

“No need to seize the last word, Lord Baelish.” She scowled at him from the corner of her eye. “I’ll assume it was something clever.”

With that, Petyr Baelish was scared off. “My lady, my lady.” He scurried through the archway and off to the keep.

“Why is he still here?” Brienne bit out, though not harshly. She stepped towards Sansa, and Sansa stiffened, still on edge. She couldn’t help the ache in her head and the pit in her stomach.

She sighed. “We need his men. Without the Vale, Ramsay Bolton would still hold this castle. Littlefinger saved us.”

Brienne nodded her understanding. It was, in fact, the truth. The Battle of the Bastards was a grim affair, and if Sansa had not called in the help of the Vale, Jon would have perished, along with their entire army. Sansa would be back in the clutches of Ramsay Bolton, being raped and brutalized without abandon. Sansa’s muscles tightened.

“He wants something,” Brienne said, jealously lacing her tone. Sansa was too tightly coiled to react.

“I know exactly what he wants.”

Brienne looked away from Littlefinger’s retreating form with disgust.

The itch in Sansa’s back grew to a burning pain that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She had to leave, to get back inside before she completely broke down. She didn’t say a word to Brienne, just stalked off quickly towards the castle. The sounds of Winterfell began to leave her, and they were replaced by Littlefinger’s words, the seething of the men at the great fest, and the snarls of Ramsay Bolton himself. She placed a shaking hand on her stomach.

A reprieve came once she slammed the door to the lord’s chambers. The sound, though loud and startling, allowed her to shut the words of others out of her mind. It rang through her ears and cleared her head. Sansa turned and leaned her back against the door, sunk down to the floor. She looked about the room. There lay her sleep clothes, on the chest at the foot of the bed; Brienne’s tunic was draped over a chair, waiting for her to return from training and replace her armor with it; on the table, Sansa’s jewelry sat beside Brienne’s decorative knife, a gift from her father on her twentieth name day. They had become so intertwined in such little time, and it was a glorious thing. Sansa felt guilty to be ruining it with something she couldn’t control.

A knock came at the door and reverberated through her body, still pressed to the thick wood. “Sansa?” Brienne’s voice was gentle, a bit meek, as though she were nervous about something.

Sansa was the one with something to be nervous about.

“Yes,” she said, scrambling away from the door and standing. She pressed a hand to her cheek, and it came away wet. “Come in.”

The door opened, and there was Brienne — sweet Brienne, with her shining eyes and golden hair, gently waved like the calm sea. Sansa couldn’t look at her.

“Oh, Sansa.” Brienne shut the door tightly and crossed to Sansa in two large strides, and she wrapped Sansa in her strong arms. The chill still hung on the steel of Brienne’s armor, but it felt good against Sansa’s heated cheek. She opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t bring herself to hurt this beautiful woman whom she loved so dearly.

So she pressed into Brienne’s arms and kissed her hard. She said nothing, only stripped Brienne of her armor as quickly as she could and ripped the clothing from her own body. They stood, naked and in the heat of their room, and Sansa led Brienne to the table where their papers were stacked neatly, side by side. Sansa disregarded them and laid down on the table, pulling Brienne to stand between her legs and spread herself for Brienne, just as she had so many times before, and asked her to make love to her. Brienne did as her lady bid her.

After, Sansa lay on the fur in front of the fire, her sleep clothes taking in the heat and dispersing it over her skin comfortably. Brienne was in bed reading a book. Sansa twirled her hair on her finger and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“What if I am pregnant?”

There was no sound for a moment, and then the shutting of the book and the shifting of furs. Brienne’s feet touched the floor, and she walked to the chair that sat in front of the fire and perched on its edge. Sansa kept her back to her.

“Sansa.”

“The last time he… forced me was four months ago,” Sansa said. She turned over her shoulder to look at Brienne, expecting to see the same disgust that she had sent towards Littlefinger that day. Instead, she saw an open sea of sapphire. “I haven’t bled since before then.”

Brienne released a breath. She seemed to be searching for words, and in the time that it took for her to come up with a response, Sansa had already imagined one hundred scenarios that involved Brienne leaving her in a fit of rage, disgust, or fear. She began to sob, tears streaking down her cheeks and dropping onto the white silk of her sleep clothes. Closing her eyes only worsened the tears. Her body was shaking so violently she never thought it would stop. She felt Brienne’s arms wrapping around her, pulling her close and tight, doing everything she could to stop Sansa from shaking. She cooed in her ear and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

Sansa’s voice was raw. “I don’t— I can’t. I don’t want it. I don’t want his child, I don’t want it. I can’t have it, I can’t—”

“Sansa,” Brienne said, “Sansa, all is well. Please breathe, Sansa, I need you to breathe.” She pushed wet strands of red hair off of Sansa’s face and placed her head against her chest so that Sansa could hear her breathe. “Breathe, my love, breathe.”

It took a few minutes, but Sansa’s breaths finally slowed, and her cries died. She buried further into Brienne’s arms.

“You must think me awful.” Sansa’s heart sunk as she said the words. She couldn’t look Brienne in the eye.

Brienne shook her head, her chin rubbing over Sansa’s head. “I have promised to follow you anywhere, my love, and I intend to keep that promise. I will be by your side no matter whose child you carry, or decide not to carry.” Sansa let out another sob and looked into Brienne’s eyes. They were wide, blue, sincere.

“They’ll kill me,” Sansa said, grasping at Brienne’s arm. “The bannermen will kill me and the baby if they know. No one wants his child in Winterfell.”

“I will not let that happen.”

Brienne lifted Sansa off the floor and carried her the short distance to the bed. She laid her on the furs and helped her get comfortable, then blew out the candles and settled into bed. As soon as she had laid down, Sansa grabbed onto Brienne’s sleep shirt and pulled her close. Brienne rubbed a hand over her back gently, massaged her tight muscles while kissing the top of her head.

“We will go to the maester tomorrow,” Brienne whispered, “and then we will know.”

Sansa swallowed thickly and buried deeper into Brienne’s neck. “I don’t want his child, Brienne.”

“I know, my sweet, I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be the last chapter, but I got carried away and thought this was a good place to end a chapter. Good news, though, because I finally have a definite ending planned, but the next chapter might be a little short
> 
> this is very unedited

Brienne brushed Sansa’s hair in the morning and helped her plait it. Sansa sighed into each of Brienne’s touches — she loved the feel of her lady’s fingers twisting strands of her hair. They took their time, Sansa wanting to savor the last few moments of normalcy she would have, Brienne sensing this and going at Sansa’s pace.

They dressed and sat down at the table to eat. It was a difficult task for Sansa, as her stomach was already in knots. Brienne gave her small bites and let her share what she was eating.

“Cersei once told me that I should pray for motherhood,” Sansa said suddenly. Brienne stopped eating and looked at Sansa, a hint of pain and pity in the wrinkle of her brow. “She told me to love my children, that they would be all that I had.” She swallowed and looked down, placing a hand on her stomach. “I don’t think I could ever love this child, no matter how hard I tried."

The maester was never far, just a short way across the courtyard. It was silent so early in the morning. Sansa was thankful for this.

When they arrived, Sansa took a deep breath before explaining the situation to the maester. He nodded and bid Sansa lay on a cot without much reaction, just a mechanical process of preparing his hands for an examination. Sansa stripped herself of her heavy cloak and handed it to Brienne.

“Your dress as well, my lady,” he said, a bit regretfully this time. He gave Sansa a dressing gown to don in its stead. Sansa tightened her jaw and removed her dress.

Once ready, Sansa laid on the cot and waited for the maester. She stared at the wood of the ceiling, not daring to move her eyes as she heard the maester clinking objects, grinding powders, and preparing himself. Her heart beat uncontrollably in her chest. She wondered how many women had had men force themselves upon them and then laid in such a position, with the same thought going through their minds: _I don’t want this_.

The maester came to her and stood over her, finally in her view. He seemed ready to start, then looked up, at Brienne. “This procedure requires privacy, Lady Brienne.”

“No.” Sansa’s chest began to tighten. “Don’t make her leave.”

“I have a woman’s body, Maester. If the Lady Sansa is comfortable with me here, I shall have no issue seeing such a procedure,” Brienne said. The maester nodded and began the process.

He started with her lower abdomen, pressing his fingers around different parts of it, feeling for things Sansa didn’t want to think about. He showed no emotion as he finished with this. Next, he asked Sansa to open the dressing gown. His intent was to feel her breasts, he told her, for tenderness or abnormal swelling. Sansa did not feel anything out of the ordinary as he did this. The maester then asked her to smell a power that he had crushed. She did as asked, and once nothing had happened after a time, the maester continued to his final procedure. He asked her to spread her legs, and he examined the insides of her thighs before quickly looking at her center. When he was finished, he told her to dress.

“Is it… what we think it is?” Sansa asked the maester’s back. He was putting away his potions and mixing some things.

“I am afraid that you are wrong, my lady.”

Sansa froze, her mouth falling open.

The maester finished his concoction and turned to her. “I have heard of such a thing few times before, but the citadel does have a few books on the matter. You are not pregnant, Lady Sansa. With incidents of trauma, the body will sometimes give up one function in order to focus on another. This comes in cases of starvation or dehydration, even injury and abuse. You have not bled because your body thinks other things are more necessary for survival.”

“And there is no chance of her being pregnant?” Brienne asked. The maester grimaced.

“Of course, there is a chance, but her abdomen shows no sign of any swelling due to a child.” He extended the mixture that he had prepared to Sansa. “This should help to restore your body to its natural course. If I am wrong, and you are, in fact, with child, a few months shall give us a conclusive answer.”

For the first time in two days, Sansa felt like she could breathe again. Her lungs suddenly expanded with an onslaught of cold air and her head cleared. She was rendered speechless.

Brienne seemed to notice this and took her arm gently. “Thank you, Maester.” Sansa clutched the potion he had given her tightly as he nodded, and Brienne tugged Sansa out of his chambers and into the snow. They were silent as they crossed the courtyard.

The door to their room thumped gently as Brienne eased it closed. Her back was still to Sansa when Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the fire, eyes unseeing. She felt weightless, completely empty. Her skin was cold; Sansa was sure it was the color of fresh snow.

It felt like hours before Brienne was kneeling in front of her and gently removing the cloak from around her shoulders. She took Sansa’s hand and kissed down her palm and gently on her wrist. It brought her out of her stupor, and she finally trained her tired eyes on Brienne.

“Sansa, my love,” Brienne said, placing her hand gently on Sansa’s cheek. Sansa nodded her head, slightly, into the touch.

Sansa worried the inside of her cheek. “Yes, I’m all right.”

It was the closest thing to the truth that Sansa could come up with. There was no real way to describe her feelings. The seed of her fear had been planted weeks ago, the night of the great feast, when the ignorant lords had reminded her of what she had always known to be true — that she might be pregnant by Ramsay Bolton. Of course, Littlefinger happily brought up the subject in his vile, manipulative way. It had crushed Sansa, truly, to know that so many others were concerned with the state of her womb while she was still pulling together the pieces that Ramsay had torn apart.

And now it was gone; weeks of fretting, butterflies growing in her stomach as her phantom child did in her mind, lifted away with simple words from the maester. Sansa wasn’t sure where to find her footing or what new worry to settle on now.

“Are you?” Brienne asked. “All right?”

“No one prepares you for dealing with men. They teach you how to sew and dress and dance, they tell you that your job is to bear children and care for them, but they never tell you about how greedy and vile men are. Septa Mordane never told me that I would become a pawn in a man’s world, my mother never warned me that I would be sold to men who would take pleasure in hurting me. What kind of world do we live in that allows for this?” Sansa shook her head. “When I was little, I dreamed of marrying a prince like Joffrey, or a handsome knight like Loras Tyrell, or even an heir like Ramsay. I _wanted_ to be a wife and a mother and have a head full of nothing. How stupid I was. I need a purpose, now, or I cannot keep going.”

Brienne put her other hand on Sansa’s face, pulling Sansa’s gaze directly into Brienne’s dark blue eyes. She was solemn and stable and everything Sansa needed and more. “You are Lady Sansa of the House Stark, Heir to Winterfell, Wardeness of the North. You have nearly half a continent falling to your feet to honor you as their beloved queen. This is your home, and I know that you love it. You already have a purpose, my love, and it is to lead your people.”

“But when Jon gets back—”

“Jon Snow is an honorable man, just as Eddard Stark was,” Brienne said. “When he returns from Dragonstone, he will see that you are a servant to your people more capable than any other. He will hear from your liege-lords, who have already claimed you as their queen. Jon Snow will step aside and let the eldest true-born Stark ascend.”

Sansa closed her eyes, feeling Brienne’s fingertips press firmly into her cheeks. Her heart beat with sudden excitement and pounding nervousness all at once. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I will fight for you, my queen.”

Sansa laughed, then — fully, _finally_ — and she opened her eyes and fell into Brienne. She kissed all over Brienne’s face, covering her gentle cheekbones and her lovely brows and wonderful jaw. She kissed Brienne’s lips, heard the little noise of contentment come from them, and she finally felt complete. She pulled Brienne up and into bed, and they fell together into the mess of pillows and furs and limbs.

“Oh, my love,” Sansa said as slid her hands beneath Brienne’s shirt and pulled her ever closer. “Today is the day my life begins again. I am unburdened, finally, and I am _home_. My sister is with me, my people are safe, and you are by my side.”

“You deserve all of it, Sansa.” Brienne trailed her lips over Sansa’s neck. “You are the strongest, most brilliant person I know. Whatever you wish, you shall have.”

Sansa put her finger under Brienne’s chin, lifted her face so they were even. The solemnity of Brienne’s gaze earlier had taken root in Sansa’s, now. “I wish for you to be mine all the time. I wish to be yours, fully, in the sight of the Gods. Brienne, I wish to be your—”

She was cut off by an unfortunate knocking upon the door. Brienne, whose eyes had gone wide, stayed still, so it was Sansa who got up to open the door. She pulled it back only slightly, so that their visitor might only see Sansa’s face and not the bed, upon which Brienne still lay. It was Arya, her eyes dark and worried.

“Arya, what are you—”

“They’re back.” She pushed into the room, and despite Sansa’s advantage in height, she couldn’t compete with Arya’s strength. She spared Brienne a glance — Brienne, who had collected herself enough to sit up in the bed — and hesitated only for a moment before turning back to Sansa. “Jon and his man, Davos, and a girl named Meera has come with Bran—”

Sansa gasped. “Bran?”

But Arya ignored her, too set on whatever other news she had. “She’s here, Sansa. Daenerys Targaryen is here, and she’s brought her dragons.”

 

 

Upon her brother’s arrival, Sansa relentlessly chided him on all accounts: how he left Winterfell with such a spare warning; how he went to meet with an unknown and unpredictable foreigner with the name Targaryen without any military support; how he had returned without sending word to Sansa in order for her to prepare Winterfell for such an arrival.

When Sansa met Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, she had been less than impressed. Daenerys was a formidable woman, true — short in stature, but she had a firmness to her eyes that made her gaze cut like steel, not to mention her classic Targaryen features — but she was simply another player in the game of thrones with little respect for the North. Though not obvious to Jon, it was very apparent to Sansa that Daenerys was merely interested in conquering the North and demoting the Starks from regents to wardens once again, while caring little for the deference that they deserved.

All of this Sansa had intended to tell Jon, until she learned that he had bent the knee.

“You _what_?”

Jon followed Sansa as she paced away from him and towards the fire burning in the hearth of the war room. “It was the right thing to do, Sansa, both for the North and for Westeros. I believe in her. She wants to be better than her father, better than Robert Baratheon and the Lannisters. She’s going to make the world better.”

“You don’t make those decisions, Jon!” Sansa shouted, turning around so her skirts flew about her.“You left Winterfell, ran off to join the Night’s Watch, while I lived at court. I saw our father’s head fall to the ground after Joffrey cut it off, I stared at it upon a pike while Joffrey’s men held me. I survived Cersei and Tywin Lannister, Roose and Ramsay Bolton. You didn’t win Winterfell, Jon, _I_ did. You haven’t run this keep, but I have. You may be my brother, you may be Ned Stark’s son, but you are not the King in the North.”

Her words cut, it was obvious by the ringing silence and the pained lines cut into Jon’s face. He stared at Sansa, never letting himself waver. She could see every insult, every discredit that he had faced come to light. He was a bastard with no claim to Winterfell; Sansa — his own sister, the girl that had jumped into his arms only months before — had once again cast him out of her family.

Sansa expected Arya to snap at her, to jump to Jon’s defense. But when he looked at her, she only shook her head.

“How could you?” Arya asked quietly. Jon’s eyes fell, and then Sansa saw it.

She saw everything in the way he held himself, the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders straightened and he prepared himself to defend Daenerys Targaryen to the ends of the earth. He was in love with her — that was how he could betray his family and the North and bend the knee. For all Jon’s swordsmanship and valor, Daenerys could cut him down with a look, and that was what Jon loved the most about her. The revelation didn’t make Sansa sympathetic, and it certainly didn’t warrant her forgiveness, but it gave her clarity.

“We need her army, just as we need every standing army in Westeros, or we will not survive the Long Night,” Jon said.

A statement which spurred Sansa’s next greatest challenge: dealing with Jon’s incredulous plan to parlay with Cersei Lannister. Sansa thought the idea completely ridiculous and founded in the notion that every person in Westeros is honorable. Jon might have truly believed this, but Sansa refused to. It made her even more nervous that Daenerys seemed fully in support of the plan.

“Cersei has one of the largest armies in Westeros, she has the Kingsguard, and she can call more armies in Westeros than we can,” Jon said as they all spoke in the war room. Nearly everyone — Sansa, Arya, Lord Royce, Brienne, and Podrick — looked at him like he was insane. It was only Daenerys, Davos, and her advisors, the stoic Grey Worm and intelligent Missandei, and, shockingly, Tyrion and Varys, who were persuaded (though to varying degrees).

Sansa rolled her eyes once again, this time noticed by Daenerys, who trained her narrowed eyes on Sansa. “Please, Lady Stark, do not spare us another of your objections.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Brienne reach for the hilt of Oathkeeper. “What do you have to say?”

“I don’t mean to offend, your grace.” Sansa couldn’t seem to muster enough strength to put behind the lie, and she heard Arya snicker beside her. But Sansa, finally, had the floor and a captive audience, given to her by Daenerys. It was more than she could say for Jon. “You don’t know Cersei Lannister, your grace, and neither do you, Jon. I lived with Cersei for nearly four years. I know how she operates. You won’t be a minute into King’s Landing before your heads will decorate the gates of the Red Keep.”

Jon bowed his head, acknowledging the memory of their father. “I understand why you’d be hesitant, Sansa, but if we entreat Cersei right, she will honor a parlay.”

“We can get a raven to King’s Landing quickly, tell her of what we mean to bring, and ask for a formal meeting. Representatives from each power will come, and we will bring armies. It’s the only way to ensure Cersei keeps her word.” Davos was dedicated to Jon, but he seemed the more rational, where her brother was more romantic. Tyrion, one of the only other people in the room who knew Cersei as much as, if not better than, Sansa, was conveniently silent.

“You speak of honor,” Sansa said quietly, rigidly. Her back was straight despite the immense weight of the stress even the name Cersei Lannister brought. “You claim that Cersei will stay true to her word. Cersei Lannister promised me that, with the stroke of a quill and a word to my father, I would save my family; my _whole_ family. Instead, my father rests below us in the crypts, my mother is slain, and my brother’s body is desecrated, all at the hands of the Lannisters. That is what Cersei’s word is good for.”

“Sansa—”

Arya stepped up and cut a look to Jon so sharp that he stopped, apologetically bowing his head.

Sansa walked around the edge of the table slowly, her feet thumping on the floor, sound ringing through the silent room. Everyone watched her, waiting for her next words, her move. Everything she had endured brought her to this moment. She watched her father die when she was thirteen; she lost her sister, thought her dead; she was married to her enemy at fourteen, and his family killed her mother and brother. She lost Margaery, her only true friend, far too soon. Littlefinger stole her, used her, then left her with the Boltons. She was raped, beaten and torn apart by Ramsay Bolton, her brother murdered by him. All of it happened because of the Lannisters.

Sansa walked right up to Daenerys, close enough to feel the woman’s heat. Grey Worm reached for a knife, Jon put his hand on his hilt, and Brienne stiffened behind her. “I have seen people I love die at Cersei’s word. She burned an entire, full sept as she sipped her wine on the balcony of the Red Keep. You may have dragons, your grace, but even they cannot protect you from Cersei Lannister if you give her the chance to strike you down.”

The women stared at each other, neither wavering. Sansa could feel the thick, hot air in the room and the uncomfortable shifting of their companions. She watched as Daenerys tightened her jaw, her round Targaryen eyes wide as she scanned Sansa. When she made a decision, she nodded her head, and Grey Worm and Missandei seemed to understand before everyone else.

“We will go to King’s Landing,” Daenerys said.

Sansa raised her chin. “Then I will not be among you.”

 

 

Supper was a quiet affair, a small reception for Daenerys and her people. Grey Worm and Missandei seemed to be perpetually shivering from the cold, Daenerys was trying to absorb as much of the North — and Jon — as she could, Arya was trying not to kill someone, and Bran wasn’t even fully with them. Littlefinger and Lord Royce spoke quietly at the end of the table. Varys kept to himself, very much out of his element in the North.

Sansa sat between Brienne and Tyrion, and if her former husband noticed Sansa occasionally put her hand on Brienne’s leg under the table, he didn’t say. Instead, he regaled the table with his comedic stories of accidental valor.

A break in the group conversation allowed Sansa a moment to speak with Tyrion. Jon was speaking quietly with Daenerys, Brienne was chatting with Missandei, Arya, Varys, and Davos spoke of their travels, and, curiously, Grey Worm was talking to Bran.

Sansa leaned towards Tyrion. “I never had the chance to thank you.”

“For what, my lady?” Tyrion asked. Sansa fondly remembered the time when he had called her Sansa, and she had called him Tyrion.

“Being gentle, and for protecting me in King’s Landing. You knew I wasn’t safe and you did everything in your power to keep Joffrey and Cersei from eating me alive,” Sansa said. She tightened her hand on Brienne’s leg. If it weren’t for Tyrion, she likely wouldn’t have come under Brienne’s protection.

Tyrion laughed. “I was always sorry that my father forced me upon you.”

“Fret no longer, my lord.” Sansa clenched her jaw so hard she felt her teeth click together. “You were not the one truly forced upon me.”

They were both silent for a moment. Tyrion understood completely, just has he always had. He was one of the few men Sansa had ever known to be in touch with the whole world, not just his own life.

“Jon told me very little of you when I asked, only that you had endured far more than you should have. And Varys was informed of your unfortunate union with the Bolton boy. I only wish I could have protected you from him.” Tyrion’s eyes fell, and he took another sip of his wine. “You have grown to be a brilliant, beautiful, fearsome young lady, and Gods know we need more of those in Westeros. If you would ever like to talk…” He looked at Sansa, his eyes as open and gentle as they had been on their wedding night. “I should like to be a confidant, someone you might share your pain with, if only for a moment’s reprieve.”

Sansa took his hand on the table and squeezed it. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion. I should like that very much.”

They finished the meal, and while the others became involved in a hearty conversation, Sansa was a bit drunk and quite worn out. She had spent most of the day in meetings attempting to prepare Winterfell for the addition of Daenerys’ armies, as well as any other armies that might arrive. After finishing her glass of wine, she leaned over, her lips a touch too close to Brienne’s ear.

“I’m going to retire,” she whispered. “The wine has gotten to my head.”

“Shall I come with you?” Brienne found Sansa’s hand under the table and ran her fingers over her knuckles, down to her wrist.

Sansa shook her head. “You should stay, love, if you’re enjoying yourself.” Brienne looked at the other guests, heard a bit of Arya’s grand tale from Essos, then bit her lip and looked back to Sansa, guilt softening her eyes. “Stay. I know you’ll come to me.”

“I won’t be long, I promise.”

When Sansa looked back to the table, she saw Daenerys’ eyes trained on her, brow raised with curiosity. Sansa didn’t have it in her to care. She stood, and all the men, as well as Brienne, stood with her.

“Regretfully, I must retire. I wish you all a good night,” she said, then turned and left as a round of “my lady” rang through the great hall.

She was half asleep when the door to their chambers opened and a candle brought light into the room. Brienne closed the door as softly as she could, but Sansa was already awake enough to prop herself on her forearms. Brienne noticed her as she went to put the candle on the table.

“You should be asleep, Sansa,” Brienne whispered, but Sansa saw the happy quirk at the corner of her mouth.

Sansa cleared her throat of sleep. “You know I cannot sleep without you.” She was reminded, then, of the meeting with their war council earlier and of her decision not to go to King’s Landing. Her eyes fell with guilt. “I need to talk to you about this matter of the King’s Landing visit. Will you bring me a cup of water, please?”

Brienne filled two cups and took a long drink of her own before taking off her tunic and boots. Sansa tucked her legs up to give Brienne room, took the cup from her as she sat, and drank as well. She finished the cup, her mouth still dry from the wine, then put it on the small table beside the bed. As Brienne sat in front of her, she took her hand that was sitting on the furs.

Brienne lifted their hands and kissed the back of Sansa’s hand. “What is it, my love?”

“I cannot go to King’s Landing. That place…” Sansa shook her head. “As long as Cersei lives, King’s Landing is not a safe place for any Stark. I will not be involved in any peace talks with that woman.”

“It was rude of Daenerys to ask it of you,” Brienne said.

Sansa nodded. “Despite my views, the peace talks will happen, it seems, and someone must represent the North. Someone with its best interest at heart, rather than my lovesick brother.”

“Will you send Arya?”

“No, I won’t make her go back to the place her father died.” Sansa laughed quietly. “And I fear she would kill Cersei, which isn’t unwelcome, but then none of them would leave the city alive.” She looked up into Brienne’s eyes, beginning to fill with understanding. Her heart strained. Of all the things Sansa had had to face in her life, this might have been the hardest. Sansa felt tears stinging at the back of her eyes, but she held them off. “I need you to go to King’s Landing.”

“I won’t leave you here alone,” Brienne said. Sansa felt the tears begin to fall down her cheeks. She shifted on the bed so that she was kneeling beside Brienne and put her hands on Brienne’s cheeks. “You aren’t safe, not with Littlefinger here. I don’t trust him.”

“Brienne, you are the only person in my life that I trust. I am asking this of you because I know that you will do everything with my interest at heart.” Sansa swiped a tear from Brienne’s cheek and connected their foreheads. It was the first time she had seen Brienne cry, and she vowed then that it would be the last. “Listen to me. You will go to King’s Landing, and you will protect my home and my people.”

Brienne fought through a sob with a shuddering breath. She closed her eyes. Her voice was strangled at the base of her neck, thick through tears. “Before I fell in love with you, I vowed that the rest of my life would be in service to you. I shall do this for you, but only once I know that you will be protected in my absence.”

Sansa’s throat tightened with the gravity of Brienne’s sorrow. She knew it had to be done — there was no one else on earth that Sansa could trust with this task. Still, it pained her to send her love away, to tear apart two hearts that had grown together. Brienne hadn’t even left yet, had barely agreed to it, and Sansa already felt like half her body had been ripped from her.

“I know what threats face me and I am prepared to meet them squarely, if need be,” Sansa said.

“And Littlefinger?” Brienne asked, her eyes now open and frighteningly serious. “He has used you time and again.”

“I have plans for Littlefinger, I promise you. He has no power in Winterfell. Besides, I have my sister. I don’t yet know this new Arya, but she will protect me in the ways I cannot protect myself.”

Brienne was already moving out of Sansa’s grasp. “I will speak with her now.”

“Brienne.” Sansa laughed, because this beautiful, stubborn woman was ready to storm Arya’s room in the middle of the night for her like a young soldier running into battle. She pulled Brienne back with all the forcefulness of her love, and she settled into Brienne’s lap and threw her arms around her neck. “How I love you, Brienne. You are so good.” She kissed Brienne’s forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips. “There will be time enough tomorrow to talk to Arya. Stay with me now, please.”

“Okay, my love, okay.”

Sansa eased Brienne’s back onto the bed and kissed her just as she had a hundred times before, and nothing felt more right, more like home. This would be one of the last times for a while, Sansa knew. So, she took her time. She kissed down the beautiful column of Brienne’s neck, lifted her shirt to reveal Brienne’s stomach, her breasts, her shoulders and biceps. Sansa kissed the muscles that strained in battle. She kissed the divots in Brienne’s collar, traced her tongue over Brienne’s nipples and down the lines of her abs. Soon, Brienne was naked and shaking as Sansa’s lips found the inside of her thighs.

Every part of Brienne was strong, and Sansa loved it. She loved when Brienne’s arms clutched her tightly; she ached to see her abs tighten and her neck strain in pleasure. But now, as she traced her tongue around Brienne’s clit and felt her hips shake, Sansa knew she was holding back. So, she brought her fingers to Brienne’s center and slowly entered two, and she was rewarded with the press of Brienne’s strong thighs against her head.

Making love to Brienne is so natural to Sansa she thought that she was made to do it. She listened to each cry from Brienne, felt all of her muscles and tendons, and she knew just how to move her fingers and flick her tongue to bring Brienne the bliss she deserved.

Three of Sansa’s fingers stretched Brienne now, and her tongue and teeth worked at Brienne’s clit. Brienne’s hand came to her hair and she cried out sharply; Sansa didn’t need Brienne to tell her that she had come. She let her fingers stroke gently through Brienne twice more, then slid her body up Brienne’s so she could kiss her properly.

“My beautiful Sansa,” Brienne whispered. Her chest was still heaving, as was Sansa’s,from the effort. “I love you.”

“Do you, Brienne?” Sansa asked, her lips at Brienne’s temple. She placed a kiss there. Sansa knew the answer, could feel it in the way Brienne’s heart was still pounding in her chest, could see it whenever she glanced Brienne’s sapphire eyes. Sansa, straddling Brienne, sat up and ran a hand through her unruly hair. “Do you love me?”

Sansa knew. And yet Brienne told her all the same in the way her hands moved to the hem of Sansa’s sleep clothes, felt their way beneath the skirts and along the curve of Sansa’s thighs. Brienne spelled her love in the soft touches to Sansa’s scars that nearly brought tears to her eyes. Sansa knew that Brienne loved her when she held back her strength to let Sansa find her own. Brienne’s hand trailed an unseen line from between her breasts and down the scar to her center, and she entered her with two fingers but let Sansa set the pace.

She would always love Brienne; this Sansa had known for a long time now. Even apart for however long, Sansa would wait for Brienne until the end of her days, if need be. There was no touch like Brienne’s, gentle and noble and true. Sansa looked down at Brienne’s eyes, dark, gazing upon Sansa as though she were the moon hanging in the night sky. Sansa’s hips faltered in their pace. Didn’t Brienne know that Sansa thought her to be the glorious summer sun?

 

 

“Wake up, my Sansa,” Brienne whispered, and her words gently lifted Sansa out of her slumber.

Instead of opening her eyes, however, she just tightened her arms around Brienne. “Let me rest more. I will not sleep in all the time that you are gone.”

“I know.” Brienne pressed a long kiss to Sansa’s head. They laid together for a few moments, Sansa breathing in time with the raise and fall of Brienne’s chest against her. No matter how much she tried, Sansa couldn’t fall back to sleep. It was time to give Brienne up. She wiggled her shoulders to loosen Brienne’s grip on her, and Brienne laughed and looked down into her eyes. “I shall not stop thinking of you the whole journey.”

“You’d better not,” Sansa said, a sad laugh rising from her chest. She bit her lip to keep from changing her mind and begging Brienne to stay. “I love you.”

Brienne smiled. “And I love you.”

Sansa sat up and propped herself up on her hand. She looked down at Brienne, a smirk growing on her lips. “If anyone threatens your life, I order you to kill every last person loyal to Cersei. I know you could do it.”

“You have great faith in my skills, Lady Sansa.”

“That is because I have become intimately familiar with _all_ of your skills.” Sansa took one of Brienne’s hands in her own and brought it to her lips, her eyes never leaving Brienne’s. As she kissed each of her fingers, Brienne’s mouth opened slightly. “I would very much like for you to return safely.”

Brienne nodded. “I will.”

They dressed together, as they always did, and Sansa helped Brienne pack all of the clothes and weapons she would need. Sansa slipped a pair of her undergarments in the bag, smiling to herself at the face Brienne would surely make when she saw them. They passed the bags off to Podrick to be loaded onto the caravan. Sansa kissed Brienne one last time, fastened her cloak around her shoulders, and then they were off to the courtyard.

Jon was already in his saddle when they went outside. Tyrion and Varys were preparing to ride in a wheelhouse, Sandor Clegane was fastening a chained cart to the back of a horse, and Daenerys and Grey Worm were giving instructions to the commander of the Unsullied that would remain at Winterfell.

As Brienne went to help Pod with the horses, Sansa joined Arya and Bran by Jon.

“Your travels will be easy, but your task will require you to do what you cannot,” Bran said in his soft, distant voice. Jon raised a brow at the words.

“Take good care of your sisters, Bran. I know they’ll take care of you.” Jon looked down at Arya. “I’m sorry to be leaving so soon.”

Arya shook her head. “Just come back. Preferably without dying this time.” She took the handle of Bran’s chair and walked away, satisfied with Jon’s nod.

Jon couldn’t keep the guilt from his eyes as he looked at Sansa. “You know I have to do it.”

“No, I don’t know,” Sansa snapped. She clenched her jaw and tried to settle her breathing. “I hope this works, but I know it won’t. If something goes wrong in King’s Landing, if people die—” Sansa’s voice broke at the thought. “I won’t ever forgive you.”

“I’d understand if you didn’t.” Shouting came from the back of the caravan to signal that they were ready. “You have done such a fine job here, Sansa, better than I ever could. Keep… keep making father proud, as you have been.”

Sansa lowered her eyes in understanding. Jon nudged his horse, and he began his journey.

Brienne hadn’t yet saddled, as she was helping Pod secure one last saddlebag to his horse. Sansa dismissed the man holding Brienne’s horse and took the reins herself. Brienne smiled so brightly when she turned around and saw Sansa. It was a beautiful, split-second moment that always happened when they were in public — Sansa lived to see Brienne’s unbridled love, even for just that moment, outside of their chambers. Then, Brienne steeled herself, though Sansa thought she was never able to keep the passion from her eyes.

“I wish you a safe journey, Lady Brienne,” Sansa said. The words were almost painful in how coated in propriety they were. Her chest swelled with the effort of holding back everything she wanted to say and do in that moment.

Brienne bowed her head. “Thank you, my lady. I shall send a raven once we arrive in King’s Landing.”

“I look forward to receiving it.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Sansa could see tears shining in Brienne’s eyes, and she felt her own eyes begin to water. It was time. Sansa handed the reins to Brienne and walked away.

She couldn’t watch as Brienne and Pod trotted towards the gate. Instead, she trained her gaze on Daenerys’ eyes which watched her the whole time. Sansa went to her, her chin raised and eyes returned to a neutral, unaffected stare.

“Not traveling with the caravan, your grace?” Sansa asked. She stood beside Daenerys, and the two of them watched the rest of the horses trot away.

“I prefer to travel by dragon whenever possible. Drogon and I will leave in a few minutes.” Daenerys let her gaze trail from the disappearing wheelhouse to the side of Sansa’s face. “You value Lady Brienne very much.”

Sansa closed her eyes for just a moment. Daenerys knew. “She is a great warrior and a loyal servant.”

“No harm will come to her. I promise, I will return her to you.”

“I mean no offense, your grace,” Sansa began, turning to look at Daenerys, “but not even the Mother of Dragons can make that kind of promise.”

At last, the caravan was gone, and the gates were closed with a resounding crash. Sansa trudged back to the keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> screw canon


End file.
